The Devil You Know
by MarquiseM
Summary: Sarah has left the world of the labyrinth behind, made to believe it was all a figment of her imagination. Ten years later, that world begins to bleed into hers again and she finds a therapist to help her. But her therapist has orchestrated far more than she could ever imagine and what was supposed to help her devolves into a dangerous game of cat and mouse. Inspired by Hannibal.
1. Chapter 1

They say that the devil will whisper wicked things in your ear, will tempt you, and I think some part of me wanted it to happen. Hoped it would be true. But the devil, to me, was white wings in the dark. I would catch a glimpse sometimes, outside my window as I got ready for bed. I would feel a chill, wondering if he was watching me. I would tell myself it wasn't real. I was told it _wasn't _real. I'd been in therapy for years, unpacking my trauma and the delusions that came with it.

But I forgot about devils and white wings and whispers when I graduated college. I had less time to dream, then, caught up in a whirlwind of distraction. Thrust into a job, into worrying about money and taxes, I left some part of myself behind. When I came home I was exhausted, and I spent the free time I did have doing chores, aimlessly decompressing from work, or taking care of Toby. And then dad died, leaving me even more unmoored. Despite my fatigue, the nightmares were still locked away.

There were moments, however, when I wished there was _more_. Those quiet moments when I was alone with my thoughts, when I would stare out of my bedroom window and think of bargains and a clock striking thirteen. The labyrinth was like a dream, spider-silk thin in my memories. The more years that passed, the harder it was to hold onto. And yet, the more that real life threw at me, the more desperately I wanted it to be real. How can you truly heal when part of you craves what's hurting you?

I didn't see Hoggle or Sir Didymus or Ludo in the mirror anymore. And I felt deeply, irrevocably, alone. Even when I was with friends. Especially with my father gone. I should confide in _real_ friends, they said.

Yet my longing for something beyond this life was a keen ache. The need for magic, for something more, is intrinsically human, but deep in my cavernous heart I knew I had _experienced_ a world beyond this one—even if it was a world of my own making—and now the door was shut. I was lost and I might never find my way back. But that other world frightened me too. Seeing it meant I had lost control, that I opened something meant to stay closed forever.

* * *

I walk to the university just after sunrise, admiring the early dawn light against the brownstones. I like the quiet that morning offers and it has become a ritual to get to campus early, enjoy a cup of tea at the library, and read before work. It's my goal to work there someday, which is why I had both gotten an administration job at the university and applied for grad school. Though I have my reservations about turning my place of solace into my place of work.

Soft golden light shines on the clocktower as I make my way to the library. There is a swell of comfort that comes with routine. Every day I walk to campus, leaving the house at 6:30, and every day I arrive when the clock strikes 7, a few minutes faster than the clock on my phone. The bell tolls and I check its large, brass hands out of habit. My chest immediately tightens. The clock struck thirteen. I pull out my phone, desperate for a firmer hold on reality. 6:58am. I look back at the clock, only to find that it's normal again, its short hand hovering over VII. Covering my eyes with my hands, I take several deep breaths. I've been under a lot of stress, but that doesn't mean the visions will come back—perhaps I just need more rest. It's not _real_. I shake my head and walk to the library as the bell counts the hours. It tolls thirteen times.

With my cup of black tea, I make my way through the stacks, trailing my fingers along the spines. Familiarity, ritual. I think of another book—a slim, red volume with gold stamping. Flower crowns, white dresses, autumn rain. A clock with spinning hands. Black-gloves. My fingers constrict around my paper cup.

* * *

"Do you have those papers ready?" Amelia says, not sparing me a glance as she walks by my desk. She is trying to impress in her pencil skirt and I-mean-business blue. The president of the school is meeting with a big donor today and there is some inane pressure to dress up even though they would only briefly walk through our office.

"Almost." I feel more normal already in the hustle and bustle of the office. And while I often daydream about the day I'll be able to leave this job, I luxuriate in the comfort of the mundane. My buzzing brain has quieted to a low hum.

A flurry of nervous energy, Amelia sighs and fidgets. "Well, I'll go check downstairs and see when they will be arriving." I can hear her quick footsteps retreat down the hall and I smile, shaking my head.

When I receive what I need for the paperwork, I print it and walk into the president's office to set them on her desk. When I walk back out, Amelia has returned, slightly breathless.

"They are on the way here. Did you finish—"

"Yes, Amelia. It's on her desk."

The elevator dings and voices carry through the open door. Amelia and I both smooth our skirts simultaneously.

The group walks into our office, all handshakes and that particular laugh that is shared only between people of wealth. My jaw clenches with irritation. They stand, chatting, acting as if we aren't there, and Amelia and I share a look. She smiles conspiratorially and inclines her head towards the blond man with his back to us. _Hot and rich _she mouths. I smile and roll my eyes. And probably completely insufferable. I look back at the group, wishing they would retreat into the other office. But, as the man turns, I feel the blood drain from my face. He looks at me with mismatched eyes. I haven't seen anyone with eyes like that since…

I take a shaky breath and grab the desk for support. _No, no, no_. I was _better_. I _am _better.

"Sarah, are you all right?" Amelia whispers.

No, I'm not. I sink into a chair, raising my gaze to discover that the man's notice has returned to the group. We still are not introduced, we are just lowly administration assistants, but he catches my eye again as they walk to the president's office. His brief gaze is difficult to read—part curiosity, part amusement.

"I'm fine," I say as the door softly closes behind them. I stare at my hands and find myself practicing the steps I'd been taught years before. Focus. I look at my hands on the desk, I feel the glossy wood beneath my fingertips. I hear muffled voices. I breathe.

"Perhaps you should go home? You look so pale." Her brow is furrowed with concern.

I nod, sparing a glance to the closed door. "I'll take a half day. Thanks, Amelia." I grab my coat and my bag and leave the building as quickly as I can without running. I need a break. That's all. If I can just relax, rest, this will all go away. Like last time.

The cool autumn air is bracing and I take several deep breaths. I close my eyes. It wasn't him. Just someone who looks like him. These sudden intrusions of one world into another is a shock to the system. It frightens me, but there is that familiar pool of want in that dark room of my heart.

I walk to the library instead of walking home. I buy another cup of tea at the small café downstairs and find my favorite desk at the secluded spot on the third floor. I open my laptop and log into my email. The electronic version of the paperwork is still there and it would have his name. My numb fingers stumble over the keys, my face too close to the screen.

Edward Bennett.

I'm not sure what I expected. I pinch the bridge of my nose. _Don't look for evidence to support the hallucinations, Sarah_. Did I really think 'The Goblin King' would be printed on the paperwork? There is nothing of import through a Google search either. Just that he is an alumnus, some of the community work he's done, nothing strange. In the photos online, he looks nothing like Jareth. I shut my laptop. That strange yearning pulls at me while the tightness in my chest loosens. It's going to be okay.

Too shaken to be alone at home, I stay out until it's dark, venturing into a café when I get hungry. As the clock strikes ten—I tense, counting the hours—I gather my things to walk home. There is no sense in avoiding it and, at least, nothing has happened since I left work. Part of me begins to feel silly by how shaken I am. Life is just getting to me. That's all. My dad had passed away. Toby needs me. My mind is just inventing things so that I don't have to confront the real sources of my stress. I call Irene on the way home.

"Sarah?"

I smile. "Hi Irene." 'Mom' had never quite fit, but she feels like a lighthouse in the dark. "How are you?"

Her voice sounds tired. "Today has been a bit easier. Did you apply to grad school?"

"Yeah…just…walking home…"

"Are you all right, Sarah?"

"I'm fine. Just a weird day. Worried that the stress is getting to me."

There is a pause. "Is it happening again?"

"No I've….everything is under control."

"Have you given any more thought to getting a therapist? I know you said you didn't want to but … with all that's happened …"

"I'll think about it." And maybe I should. She has been trying to get me into grief counseling for a month.

"It's a lot right now. You help so much with Toby. I think you just need someone to talk to."

Perhaps it's her kind tone, or simply hearing the phrase 'you need someone to talk to', but my lower lip trembles. I know I've isolated myself, adrift at sea, clutching the goal of grad school like my only possession in the world.

"I'll find someone. Promise."

"You let me know if you need anything, okay? Toby is already asleep and I should head to bed. Text me when you get home."

"I will. Love you."

"Love you, sweet girl."

The sound of my oxfords on the sidewalk is like a metronome and I count the steps. Alone with my thoughts again. At least I'm only a few blocks from my apartment. Autumn leaves fall in the dim glow of the streetlamps and, for a moment, I remember why I love New England so much. I shove my hands deeper into my coat pockets and enjoy the way the cold air plays in my hair. I remember standing on a desert of red clay, overlooking a vast and winding labyrinth, the wind pulling at my clothes. _It doesn't look that far_.

Wings flutter behind me.

I whirl around and see only an empty sidewalk. I glare, even though my heart is racing. There is no sense in running from nothing, and yet I do. There is _nothing _there. I run down the sidewalk. _I run down the endless stretch of a maze. I'm out of breath. I kick and scream because there are no turns or openings. _

I drop my keys as I try to unlock the door. Fuck. I open and close the door with more force than is necessary and flip on the lights. My heart hammers in my chest as I lean back against the door and close my eyes. Home. Everything where I left it—my dishes in the sink, my piles of books everywhere, my papers on the coffee table. _Why don't you come inside?_

There is comfort in ritual—getting ready for bed, wearing my favorite silk robe, making a cup of chamomile tea with honey. By the time I get into bed I feel more relaxed, more rooted. I pull my computer into my lap and find the email of my previous therapist. I send her an email.

My phone chimes. Irene.

_Are you home? _

_Yes!_

_Good. _

_Heart emoji_

My phone chimes again. My therapist has already emailed me back. Except she tells me she is no longer practicing. She refers me to someone new. 'You'll be in good hands, Sarah.' His name is William Sharpe. Anxiety ripples through me at the thought of a new therapist, but I email him anyway to set up an appointment. I close my laptop.

I am so exhausted that, by the time I turn off the lights, my head barely has the chance to hit the pillow before I fall asleep. And so I don't see the barn owl at the window, looking down at me. But I do dream of the labyrinth, of falling into the oubliette, of gloved hands in my hair.

"_Did you miss me, Sarah?" I can only hear his voice in the dark, speaking softly in my ear. _

And when I wake up before dawn, I almost believe I'm still there, in his prison where people are left to be forgotten.

AN: This is my first fic and I hope you enjoy it! I'm not sure how long this will be, but I'm guessing about 10 chapters. I'm obsessed with Hannibal and I've been dying to write something inspired by it. Labyrinth seemed like the perfect fit.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

Dr. Sharpe sent a formal but kind message, fitting me in for an appointment this evening after I got off work. I hate how nervous I am, but it's the same nerves you feel before a big doctor's visit—when you know something is wrong but you aren't quite sure just how serious it is. I lift my chin, defiant. Ready to battle my own mind into submission.

It's unseasonably warm for October and I take small pleasure in being able to wear just a white button down, dark jeans, and boots. Even once the sun sets there is a peculiar balminess to the air. It's a 30-minute walk to his office but, in light of the weather, I decide not to take the train. Walking gives me more room to think, to relax. Though I'm tense as I walk, always half-listening for the flutter of wings. But only the wind rushes behind me, seeming to push me towards Dr. Sharpe's door.

His office is in a lovely, historic building in the city. The kind of space that feels more like a home and less like an office. I'm early, so I take a seat in the softly lit waiting room. There is a small table and a dark wood bookcase filled with classics, collections of fairy tales, and a thin, red book that sends a jolt through me. As soon as I stand to look closer, the door opens.

"Sarah?" Dr. Sharpe is tall, dark-haired, and wearing a well-tailored suit.

"Yes." I stare and cross my arms. There is no real sense in being stubborn or defensive—I'm an adult and I chose to be here this time. But old habits die hard.

"Please, come in." He steps aside and beckons me into the room.

There is only a moment of hesitation before I walk in, my shoulder almost brushing his chest as I pass. He follows and shuts the door behind us. For the briefest moment I feel trapped. But he is all ease as he gestures to the chair across from his, a small smile tugging at his lips.

"Please," he says.

I sit. The room is the perfect image of a gentleman's study—lots of dark wood, books, a large desk, and even a fireplace. Though it's warm outside, a small fire burns, casting a warm glow over the room. It's strangely intimate.

"I've read your file, Sarah." He leans back in his leather chair, crosses one knee over the other. "Can you tell me why you want to resume therapy?"

I lean back in my chair too, crossing my arms once more. "I've been feeling stressed. My dad passed away. I've had…anxiety spikes."

He looks at me for a moment without speaking. His gaze is a heavy thing. "Tell me about your anxiety."

I look away, towards the dark wood paneling and his rows of bookcases. The urge to get up and peruse the titles pulls at me like a physical force, partly out of genuine interest and partly because I don't want to talk about this. "I see things, sometimes. You read my file."

"I did."

I feel defensive, angry. I don't want to have to deal with this. "So…I'm seeing things, hearing things."

"You stopped your medication?"

My jaw clenches before I answer. "I don't think it ever really helped."

"Hm. And what have you seen and heard?" He is calm, patient in the face of my irritability. The steadiness of a surgeon.

"The clocktower on campus struck thirteen. I heard wings behind me when there wasn't a bird in sight. And I thought I saw…"

"Yes?"

I shake my head. "It doesn't matter. What does matter is that I'm seeing things that aren't real."

"And you haven't experienced these symptoms since you were fifteen?"

"No, obviously."

"Sarah…"

The way he says my name makes me turn my head sharply to look at him again. _Sarah, don't defy me._ The room smells overwhelmingly of peaches. I stand. He remains seated, legs still crossed, relaxed.

"Are you seeing or hearing things now?" A question he already knows the answer to, based on his tone.

I close my eyes and run my fingers through my hair. Why. Why is this happening to me? First the man in the office and now my therapist? Was I doomed to see him in every man?

"Listen to my voice, Sarah. You're safe. Nothing can harm you here. I want you to take a deep breath."

I breathe in and out.

"Good. Again."

I take another deep breath and open my eyes.

"These hallucinations are your mind's way of coping with trauma. Your trauma is ruling you, but I want to give you your power back."

"How?" My voice shakes slightly, despite my best efforts.

"One of the best ways to heal from trauma is to face it, in a safe environment. You can tell me what you've experienced and whatever you say remains here. Words have power, Sarah, you know that."

I sit, slowly. _You have no power over me_. "And if I do this it will go away?" I hate how small that sounds, like a child.

"I can't make that promise. But I can promise you, Sarah, that you'll see more clearly."

His gaze holds mine and I want to look anywhere but at him. Though it gives me comfort that his eyes are both blue. "All right," I sigh. "I'll try." What choice is there, really? Leave? As stubborn as I can be, I know I need help.

He smiles. "Tell me how this all started. I read your file, but I find it's more helpful to hear firsthand."

"My mom walked out on us and my dad remarried. They had a child." I fidget. "My last therapist said that was probably what started it all. I was…upset." I'm looking away again, this time swept up in memory. "I was babysitting one night when my dad and Irene went out and I…wished him away." I pause, remembering the sight of his empty cradle. It had seemed so real, that moment of horror.

"Wished him away?" He prompts, softly.

"Yes, I…" I blush suddenly. "I'd read a book about The Goblin King and I wished that he would take my brother away. And he did. Well…I believed he did." It feels so indulgent to remember. Like eating too many chocolates or finishing a book in one sitting.

"Try to focus on the details, Sarah. Close your eyes. Let the memory run through you."

I close my eyes. "He came to the window and I begged him to give me my brother back. 'What's said is said.' There were creatures in the room. I could hear them, but couldn't see them. He held a crystal ball, told me he could give me my dreams. But I had to forget the baby." _Go back to your room. Play with your toys and your costumes. _My brow is furrowed. I can feel myself start to cry and I'm not entirely sure why. "He told me if I could solve his labyrinth, find my way to the castle beyond the goblin city, I could have my brother back." I open my eyes to find him studying me intently.

"The memory upsets you." His hands are resting gently in his lap. His fingers are long and elegant.

In his presence I am keenly aware of how much I'm fidgeting, how expressive I am. I feel like a raging sea next to his calm shores. I angrily wipe the tears from my cheeks. "It seemed so real. I suppose I'm upset because…it wasn't?" I shrug and raise my hands. "I don't know. It seems strange and _unfair _that something that had such an impact on my life never even happened."

He inclines his head. "Just because it didn't happen in this world doesn't mean it can't impact you. Tell me more."

"He told me I had thirteen hours to solve the labyrinth or I would lose my brother forever." My gaze is on the floor now, my mouth slightly ajar. I remember how upset I was. "We stepped through my window and suddenly we were in his kingdom." I marvel at the magic of it. "It was a bleak place, a winding labyrinth in a vast desert. Nowhere to run except where he wanted me to."

"Like a mouse in a cage."

Our eyes meet. "Yes, I suppose. But I defeated him." I refuse to be thought of as a mouse.

He's quiet at that, waiting for me to continue.

"There was a golden clock with thirteen hours. He told me to turn back."

"But you didn't."

I look at him. "I didn't." My discomfort in telling this story again has already lessened. Where there was embarrassment only minutes ago, I now want to tell him everything. Therapists aren't supposed to judge you, but you can feel it when they do. I could sense the pity of my last therapist from the moment I began, but Dr. Sharpe seems to listen with a rapt interest. The world feels small, suddenly, as if nothing exists outside of this room. Like we are outside of time in a place where it's always night and there is always the glow of firelight and there's nothing to fear.

"I thought it would be easy. But I couldn't even find the entrance." I give a short, humorless laugh. "I found a creature, killing faeries by the high wall. Hoggle. He was rude, gruff. But he showed me how to get in." I smile slightly at the memory of him. "He told me to ask the right questions."

"Valuable advice."

"Yes…" I don't need any prompting to continue. "But I couldn't find any turns or openings. I ran and ran until I gave up. But a…a worm told me that not everything was as it seemed." That sounds strange even to my ears, like something straight out of Lewis Carroll's head. "I learned to look at things differently."

"You seem to recall all of this very clearly, even without my help." He taps his index and middle finger on the arm of the chair. "Sometimes, with trauma, memories are so repressed that they are difficult to recover."

"I thought I'd forgotten. I don't like to think of it."

"And why is that?"

"He…I mean it…it makes me feel like there is something wrong with me. It…frightens me…that none of it was real."

"Do you wish it were real, Sarah?" His voice is low, serious.

My heart pounds. _I wish… _"Even the thought of wishing still makes me nervous. I know it's not real, but the only other thing I've wished for since then well…" I close my eyes and shake my head, as if I can banish the thought. "It's all very complicated. I don't know what I want."

He nods. "Perhaps some part of you longs for it. And that's why it has resurfaced, when the world has become too much to bear."

"Is it wrong to want to escape?"

"No, Sarah." He leans forward, elbows resting on his knees. "The mind craves it. But there are better ways to manage your trauma and anxiety. You can't run forever." He clasps his hands together, his two index fingers pressed against his lips.

A grandfather clock announces the hour. I feel like I've been here longer than 45 minutes. The fire has withered to embers and I almost wish I could stay.

"How are you feeling, Sarah?" He leans back in his chair again.

I swallow. How do I feel? "I don't know. I'm afraid this will follow me once I leave this room. I'm afraid I'll have nightmares. See things."

He gets up and walks to his desk, opens a drawer, and pulls out a bag. He carefully measures something from the bag and adds it to a small satchel before returning. He looms over me, offering the linen sachet. I take it, cautiously.

"Tea with valerian root. A bit unorthodox, but it will help relax you, help you sleep deeply."

"Thank you." I stand and put my bag over my shoulder. "What do I owe you?"

His eyes catch the fading glow of the fire, a sudden intensity to his gaze. I realize how close we are. "What do you owe me?" His voice is soft.

"For the session, I mean. I forgot to ask about the co-pay." It feels odd to discuss something so mundane in the wake of our conversation.

"Ah, you do not owe me anything for that. Your insurance covers it." He smiles.

Small favors. "When should I come back?"

He seems almost amused for a moment. "Thursday evening, if it suits your schedule. And then once a week. I take it you'd like to continue seeing me for treatment?"

I can feel the blush creep up my cheeks. "Yes, I'd like to come back. I think that's in my best interests."

He nods. "I agree." He gestures towards the door and walks me out. "Get home safely, Sarah. Contact me if you need anything before Thursday."

"Thank you, Dr. Sharpe." I walk down the steps and call a taxi, not wanting to walk all the way home in the dark. Not after last night.

When I walk into my apartment, I find myself missing the glow of the fireplace. There is something old and inviting about a fire—something that wants to make you tell stories or your darkest secrets.

I put on the kettle and change into a long white nightgown. One of my books is open on the kitchen counter and I pick it up to read as I wait for the water to boil. Perhaps I should read something more upbeat and gentle—Angela Carter is a little bit…much right now. When the kettle whistles I take the tea from my bag. It smells strong and earthy, but not entirely unpleasant. I'm reminded of a dark forest when I was offered a peach and my body stiffens. That particular memory is hazy and I push it away, trying to lock it in a box deep in the confines of my mind. Not today.

I take my cup of tea to bed and pick up a different book to read, but I don't expect the tea to work so quickly. I drop the book. My eyes and limbs are heavy—I set the tea on my nightstand and turn out the lights. True to his word, I do feel relaxed and, despite all of my earlier anxiety about visions and nightmares, I don't feel afraid to fall asleep.

_The ballroom is grand in its baroque splendor. Chandeliers with dozens of candles, a long table overflowing with fruit, cakes, chocolate, and wine, and a wall made entirely of mirrors. Beautiful windows show a dark labyrinth bathed in moonlight. And there are people, so many people, dressed in rich silks and venetian masks. All except for me. I am unmasked and dressed in shimmering white, a pale specter amongst the black and crimson and forest green. Dark eyes watch me in the center of the ballroom, and I make my way through the crowd as fingers touch my waist and catch my wrists. _

_I'm looking for something, but I'm not sure what I've lost. The jewels on my dress glimmer like stars in the dark. I wander, pulled into a dance that I don't know the steps to, pushed from partner to partner until I'm dizzy and half-swaying on my feet. A leather-gloved hand catches my arm and I look up at a man with mismatched eyes and a sly smile. He is a vision in rich blue and what I lost no longer seems to matter. We are still in a sea of candlelit black silk. _

_I open my mouth as if I might say something and he puts a finger to my lips. A hand is offered and I take it. He slides his other arm around my waist, pulling me to him. Moments ago, I didn't know the steps, but now my feet move as if I've danced this hundreds of times. He leads us in a waltz towards the open windows and a large balcony. The wind rustles the gauzy fabric of my dress as I look out over the labyrinth. We pause. Something deep in my mind stirs, but before I can pull it free, he grabs my chin and pulls my gaze back to him. Our lips are so close I can feel his breath on mine. I close the gap and he kisses me like he's branding my mouth as his own. When he pulls back I'm gasping for breath. _

"_Is this what you want, precious?" He threads his fingers into my hair and pulls, forcing me to crane my neck. _

_I reach out and pull him to me, kissing him again. I am feral in my desperate want of him. _

_He smiles, amused, but I can feel his arousal as he pushes me up against the wall. His lips are on my neck, making a slow trail up to my ear, and I close my eyes. "Just fear me, love me, do as I say…" he whispers. _

_I feel like I've been doused with cold water. Like a locked box was suddenly and forcefully opened. I shove him and he laughs, throwing his head back, mocking. When I shove him again, he grabs my wrists. _

"_That's my girl," he says with praise. "How tame you were, Sarah. How desperate. I was curious what shape your dream would take."_

_I glare up at him, confused. "What do you mean?"_

_He pins my wrists above my head and leans into my body. I feel a rush of pleasure. "I didn't construct this dream, precious. You did." He pulls away, leaving me stunned and speechless against the wall._

I startle awake, breathing heavily. My nightgown clings to me and I feel an ache in between my thighs. But the dream is already fading and I try to catch it by its tail before it leaves me completely. Music, silk gowns, candles. I rub my head. It had seemed so real, even his touch. My heart flutters in panic. These dreams weren't supposed to happen anymore.

_I didn't construct this dream, you did._

And then I hear his voice, as if he followed me from my dreams and into my bedroom.

"Don't fight me, Sarah. It's no use."

"Go away!" I cover my ears and close my eyes. But I still hear him chuckle.


	3. Chapter 3

Classical music is supposed to calm you, but I found it more vexing than relaxing. It was a herald of strange thoughts. As I sat in my fluorescent office, I was reminded of lavish tables, marble floors, candlelight, and black silk. Part seeming-memory and part fantasy, my mind fought for clarity. This morning had started off difficult and had failed to improve. From the moment I had woken up I was tired, my dreams as hazy as the early morning light that poured through my windows.

Sometimes you wake up and the world feels off kilter, as if you are a ghostly specter observing your own life. I felt one second out of sync and there wasn't water cold enough or tea strong enough to fix it. I had been late to work, given my boss the wrong files, and missed phone calls. And now I was listening to Bach as a last-ditch effort to restore myself to some modicum of normalcy. It wasn't working. Instead, my head was in my hands as I hunched over the computer, staring at emails that I refused to answer. I was in the front office alone—Amelia was out sick—and so I couldn't even rely on the external motivation of her extreme virgo tendencies.

It had been two days since my last therapy session and I was relieved that I didn't have to wait a week. Anxiety and paranoia were laying siege to my mind. I was hearing wings beat in the darkness of my bedroom, a cruel laugh, and a voice I couldn't quite remember.

The day dragged and I could have sworn that, at one point, the hands of the office clock froze, as if the entire world held its breath. I was as still as those brass hands, waiting for its _tick tick tick_ to calm my rabbit heart. When the seconds started once more, I convinced myself that the clock had simply suffered a malfunction. A stopped watch was a mundane, normal thing. And yet I found myself staring at it again and again as the sun sank behind grey clouds.

I eagerly packed my bag, gathered the papers that needed attention, and left them in the box outside my boss's door. My feet were quick and light on the stairs as I headed for the first floor. I almost missed it, caught up as I was in my own thoughts, but a vivid splash of color jarred me. I turned and looked back at the landing—a red arrow stood out amongst the grey. Slowly, I ascended the steps again to look at it more closely. It almost looked like…lipstick. I turned quickly and raced down the stairs. I was a girl afraid of broken clocks and arrows.

Again, I decided to walk to Dr. Sharpe's office. Again, the waiting room was empty. A small mercy, perhaps, that he was so practiced at staggering his clients. I didn't wait long. He opened the door to his office with a small smile.

"Sarah. Come in." He gestured with a pale hand and a slight bow. There was something old, something anachronistic, to his mannerisms. He was well-suited to this 19th century brownstone with its wainscoting and its antique fixtures.

When I sat down this time, I did so with a bit less anger. I always had a tendency to withdrawal and shut down in therapy, and yet something about him made me feel almost eager to talk. I pushed the feeling away. It was only my second time here. The small fire warmed the room, and I wondered if the appeal of this place was the sense of timelessness—there was a meticulous lack of anything modern and not a clock to be found. I relaxed into the chair as he sat down opposite me. Time had been haunting me all day. It was a balm to my shattered nerves to escape it.

"How are you, Sarah?" He looked at me intently, his index finger rubbing his lips absently.

When the right person, with the right tone, asks that question at precisely the right time it's like hitting a statue with a chisel at the perfect angle. I could feel myself crack and it took every ounce of self-control not to crumble. "It's gotten worse. Especially at night." My words sounded tight. I glanced towards the windows as if the night might attack me, but the curtains were drawn.

"What has been happening at night?"

"I hear voices. And wings. I feel like I'm being watched." I looked at the floor, wishing I could reclaim that initial eagerness to tell him everything. Shame was beginning to stir instead.

"And what do the voices say to you, Sarah?" His voice was so calm and soothing.

"I don't remember." My voice was soft. I had been _trying _to remember, but they slipped away so quickly.

"They seemed to get worse after you spoke about your memories?" He leaned forward in his chair.

"Yes, I guess so."

"And did the tea—"

"The _tea_." I could feel the blood drain from my face. "I…no…I think the tea gave me bad dreams." I was grasping the arms of the chair, my nails digging ever so slightly into the leather.

He was quiet for a moment. "Hmm…I'm sorry that didn't help you sleep." He reclined and crossed his legs. "It doesn't surprise me to hear that you're feeling worse, Sarah. It's quite normal when revisiting memories that the brain tries to keep locked away. A defense mechanism. Why don't you tell me more? What happened in the Labyrinth? And at the end of your session, I'll be sure to ease your mind before I send you home."

My heart fluttered. I could indulge again, even if just for a little while. "I met kind creatures—or, well, sometimes they were kind." I smiled slightly, thinking of Hoggle. "They helped me through the Labyrinth. It made him angry, that they were helping me."

"Him?"

"The king." It felt strange and a little frightening, like the mere mention of his title might summon him. Only, he wasn't real. "I made him angry, too. I pushed him. He…" I closed my eyes, trying to remember. It was starting to feel harder to recall the details. "He threw a crystal into a dark corridor and a giant machine appeared, chasing me. I don't know, it's hazy."

"How did you push him? What did you say?"

I paused, my brow furrowed. "It's a piece of cake." I laughed slightly, a nervous small sound that forced itself from my throat. "I told him his Labyrinth was a piece of cake."

He was silent for a moment, the only sound the crackling fire.

I opened my eyes to see him staring at me. For one strange moment he looked angry, but it was so quick that I wondered if I imagined it.

"I told him it was unfair. He took hours away from me." I looked away from him. "He treated me like a child."

"You were a child."

I turned to him again. "I was."

"And how did you escape the machine?"

"I ran. I had help…from Hoggle. He felt so bad about the..."

He raised his brows in question but didn't interrupt.

"I was trapped. Some place dark. I had fallen…" I looked away, lost in thought, trying to remember. "If Hoggle hadn't helped me, I would have been trapped forever." I never would have made it through without him. Or Ludo. Or Sir Didymus. Thoughts of them shifted, unlocked more. I remembered the scent of pine and old growth, all of us walking through a forest. I was so hungry. So hungry. The memory was pulling me down with it.

"Sarah…"

_Sarah_.

I blinked and looked up at him.

"What were you thinking of?" His voice brought me back to the room.

"A forest. It-..It was dangerous. And I remember being so hungry." I felt a wave of sickness as I remembered the cloying smell of rotting peaches.

"Deep breaths, Sarah."

My breath quickened. "No…"

"_Sarah_."

"I read once that if you eat any food the fae offer you, you're bound to their realm forever." How had I forgotten about the peach? Reality blurred around the edges and I grabbed my head.

"Sarah, look at me."

It couldn't be real. None of this was real. I wasn't bound to some otherworldly place because that place did _not_ exist. It wasn't real. It wasn't real. It wasn't-

Suddenly, I felt his hand on my chin. He lifted my head to look up at him. "You are not there, Sarah. You are here. With me. Focus. Tell me what you see in the room. What you feel. Hear. Smell."

I swallowed and slowly lowered my hands. "I see…the glow of the fire behind you." I took a shallow breath. "I smell wood smoke and old books. I hear the sound of my breathing. I feel…your fingers against my chin."

At that, he dropped his hand. "Good. Breathe in."

I did.

"Breathe out."

My breath was only slightly shaky.

He looked me over and, seemingly satisfied, returned to his chair. "Now, what frightens you so, Sarah?"

"I…can't quite remember. The memories aren't as clear today."

"Close your eyes."

"Why?"

"I will help you remember. Trust me, Sarah. You are safe here."

I closed my eyes, my brow furrowed. I could hear the rustle of fabric and the creak of the leather as he stood, the sound of his shoes on the wood floor as he walked behind my chair.

"Focus on my voice. Do as I say, and no harm will come to you."

My body tensed, my fingers clutching the arms of the chair.

There was a methodical click of his heels as he circled me. He softly guided my head to recline in the chair. "Take a deep breath in. Good. And out. Again. Now, focus on your body. When you breathe out again, imagine all of the tension leaving you. Let your body relax. Let me be your anchor."

I breathed deep, though it was difficult to surrender. But as I kept breathing, listening to his voice, I felt my body sink into the chair.

"I want you to imagine a door. Something strong and old. Do you see it?"

"Yes." I sounded far away to myself. But the door appeared in stunning clarity—heavy wood with wrought iron details.

"I want you to open it."

As if he could sense my hesitancy, he continued. "Nothing will harm you, Sarah. Not while you are in my care."

I reached out to take the iron handle and pulled. The hinges creaked and the weight felt so real.

"On the other side of the door are a set of stone steps. Walk down the steps until you see another door."

It was dark, but there was dim candlelight further down, giving the corridor a soft glow. I walked down, trailing my fingers along the stone wall. It was a long, winding staircase, but I felt strangely relaxed during my descent.

"Do you see it?" He asked, his voice low.

It was as if he were seeing through my eyes, for a door appeared out of the darkness. This one was white and gilded, completely at odds with the dark corridor. "Yes."

"Good. Open it."

I reached out hesitantly. The door seemed to buzz with energy. I pulled but…"It's locked."

He chuckled so softly that I almost missed it. "Reach into your pocket."

I reached into the pocket of my jeans and was surprised to find a golden skeleton key. When I pushed it into the lock—had there been a lock before?—the door clicked.

"Open the door and tell me what you see."

My heart leapt as the room slowly revealed itself. It was pale and lit with tall, golden candelabras. Gossamer-thin curtains covered most of the walls and low-hanging chandeliers were draped in crystal. My chest tightened, like a snake constricting around my heart. Music played, so soft and distant that it was difficult to hear. But in the stunning stillness of the room, the music was like a ghost of a party long ended. As I walked, heels clicked on the marble floor. Only, I hadn't been wearing heels. When I looked down, I saw a white gown strewn with pearls and glass.

"_Sarah, _tell me what you see."

I looked up. His voice was everywhere and nowhere and I turned in a circle, searching. Memory, old and painful, tugged at me like a current in a raging sea. Tears fell down my cheeks. "A ballroom," I whispered. It was too quiet and I was afraid to speak too loudly. "I shouldn't be here."

"Sarah, Sarah. You are exactly where you should be."

I closed my eyes and saw ghostly, masked figures dancing around me. "I'm lost…I'm…looking for something…"

"What have you lost? What are you looking for?"

When I opened my eyes again I was still alone, but there was a pedestal in the middle of the room with a single crystal ball balanced on top. Slowly, hesitantly, I walked towards it. "A crystal…"

"Pick it up, Sarah."

It fit perfectly in the palm of my hand, heavy and cool.

"Tell me what you see."

"Nothing, I…" But the reflection of the room shifted and was replaced by a masked face. The mask was dark, with twisting horns. I leaned closer, horrified yet unable to look away, and as I did the image shifted again. The crystal suddenly became a peach, perfectly ripe and fragrant. I gasped. "A peach…"

"A peach is nothing to be frightened of, Sarah. You must face your fear. Don't allow it to control you."

My lips hovered over it, my expression pained.

"Take a bite."

No, this was all wrong. I threw it instead and turned, looking for the door. But the door was no longer there. The calm that had soothed me before was rapidly dissipating. "I want to go. Let me out."

"I'm not the warden of your mind, Sarah. What are you so afraid to see? What are you so afraid to remember?"

I ran to the walls and pulled at the curtains. A grand mirror, half hidden behind the fabric, came into stunning view. But my reflection wasn't alone. A tall figure in a horned mask looked out at me and I took several steps back.

"There is a figure in the mirror," I whispered. Gauzy curtains slowly fell to the floor behind me.

"Who is the figure? What do they want?" His voice felt closer, somehow, like he was whispering in her ear.

The figure offered a hand, his midnight blue coat glittering in the world beyond the glass. I stepped forward. "He wants me to come to him." He was silent and still, his hand still extended.

"Will you?"

"He wants too much."

"Too much? Oh, Sarah, what could a man in your dreams possibly take from you?"

"There's no door." I said, not taking my eyes off of the masked man.

"Not all doors look the same. You know that."

I reached towards the mirror, but drew back just before my fingers touched the glass. "No." I picked up the nearest candelabra and threw it at the masked figure. The mirror broke into dozens of shards and the room dissolved around me in a monstrous wind of pale feathers and silk.

I woke up with a strong jerk, like you do when you are on the edge of sleep and you feel like you're falling. I sat up, gasping, and looked up at Dr. Sharpe. He loomed over me, his gaze unreadable.

"I can't—"

"Shhh, Sarah. This feeling will pass."

"I don't think I should do that again," I said quietly.

"We will work more when it comes to confronting your fears. I have other, less conventional methods, that might suit you better. But it's getting late. Can you stand?"

I didn't want to be seen as weak. I stood. I felt lightheaded.

"Very good. Now, for something less conventional that will help ease you before I send you home."

I looked up at him, unsure, but still nodded in agreement. I felt too unmoored to refuse. He took my head in his hands, his long fingers sinking into my hair slightly.

"Close your eyes." At my look of concern, he added, "No more stairs. No more doors."

I was uneasy to close my eyes again, but did so—anything to ease my mind and hopefully sleep tonight. He didn't speak, yet his hands relaxed me so much and so quickly that I stumbled into him. He gripped my shoulders to keep me steady, then took my chin in his hand and tilted my head left and right, looking into my eyes. "How do you feel?"

I blinked, trying to ground myself. "Much better. How did you do that?"

"An old trick. Touch can be quite powerful." He smirked. "Should I schedule you for the same time next week?"

The sudden return to normalcy was like stepping into icy water. "Yes, thank you." Though I felt relaxed, the intensity and strangeness of the session lingered. It felt odd to leave his office—the thought of a busy street was so at odds with the place I had just been. I stood, making no move towards the door.

"Is there anything else, Sarah?" He tilted his head slightly.

I opened my mouth to tell him that I didn't want to confront the jarring noise of the city, that I was nervous to go home alone to a dark and empty house that felt more haunted every day. But decided against it. He was already seeing too much, and I couldn't shake the strange sense of shame surrounding my stubborn inability to confront my own fears. It felt silly to fight specters of my imagination.

"It's nothing." I picked up my bag and walked to the office door. "Good night, Dr. Sharpe."

"Good night, Sarah." He smiled.

Leaving was every bit as jarring as I thought it would be—car horns and distant sirens and people talking. I wondered, briefly, how his office managed to be so quiet.

As I made my way home, I couldn't help but think of the masked man behind the glass and what he was offering me.

_Your dreams._

I frowned and pulled my coat tighter against the chill of the autumn evening. Dreams were fragile, ever-shifting things. How could he know what my dreams were when I struggled to know them myself? I shook my head. I didn't know what the offer was and I wasn't sure I wanted to find out.


	4. Chapter 4

Wishes were strange things. I hadn't made a wish since my father died. While many people wished for success or love, my wishes had revealed something deep and rotten. I had wished my dad hadn't gotten married, I had wished for a new family, and I'd wished Toby away when he cried. I was more careful with my words after my hallucinations started. I had only made one wish since the labyrinth and it had been my worst. And I couldn't shake the feeling that it had come true. In the same way that people are weary of the number 13 or haunted places, I was afraid of wishes. Once the belief worms its way into you it's difficult to remove it. I could tell myself that it wasn't real a thousand times and yet part of me would always wonder what if.

I stared into my old vanity mirror, my face becoming more shadowed in the growing dark. It was strange to be back here—in this room, in this house. But Irene was concerned about me and suggested I spend the weekend with her and Toby. My childhood bedroom was haunted by the girl I once was, so changed from when I was a teenager while also still in stasis. The furniture was the same, and some of my old things were still strewn about, but it was so clearly not _lived_ in.

The house was quiet, the moon a pale coin in the night sky. Irene and Toby had gone to bed hours ago after we finished our takeout and watched a movie—a plea for normalcy. I walked to the windows, wine bottle and glass in hand, and unlatched them, sitting with one foot propped up on the ledge. Late hours had always filled me with a sense of possibility. The world seemed to slow down somehow in the liminal space between dusk and dawn. Perhaps that had been why I'd hallucinated the Goblin King coming through my window at night—the dark set the stage for the unknown. Who had ever seen a monster on a sunny afternoon?

I rested my forehead against my knee and closed my eyes. I shouldn't have come. This place was too triggering—I'd avoided it for the most part since I'd left for college, and particularly after dad died. Hence the wine. I'd avoided alcohol, too, but the siren song of drunkenness had been difficult to resist once I stared into my empty, quiet vanity mirror.

I hadn't had any hallucinations since I'd arrived, which was somehow more unnerving. It was all the tension of a horror movie before anything frightening actually happened—the anticipation was worse. The wine was beginning to take effect when I heard a creak from the hallway. My head snapped towards my bedroom door. Perhaps I'd spoken too soon.

Another creak, like something trying not to make noise. I picked up the wine bottle, ready to bludgeon imaginary monsters. The door handle began to move. In a moment of wine-inspired confidence, I rushed to the door and threw it open.

Toby stood in the dark, his eyes wide with alarm.

"Toby," I sighed and rolled my eyes at my own ridiculousness. "It's late." I turned away from the door and set the bottle down on the vanity.

"Sarah…" Toby whispered, glancing down the hallway.

"Did you have a bad dream?"

"I think there's someone in my room." His voice was quiet, his hands fiddling with the hem of his t-shirt.

A chill sent goosebumps down my arms. "Are you sure you weren't just dreaming, Toby?" I looked behind him into the yawning dark.

He narrowed his eyes and nodded. "I can hear them."

"I'll look, okay?" I tousled his hair as I left to go to his room. He'd just had a nightmare. Nothing bad was going to happen. He stayed behind, watching from afar.

My hand shook as I pushed his door open. The room was dark other than the glow-in-the-dark stars on his ceiling. My hand went to the light switch, only to discover the overhead light was out—I turned it on and off several times. My heart raced as I stood in the moonlight, but the room was quiet. I let my breath out in a rush and closed my eyes—it was just a dark room in a dark house where a young boy had a bad dream. But, as I started to leave, music began to play. I turned slowly to look over my shoulder. It was familiar, the high-pitched tone of a music box, muffled and slow, as if it were struggling to play each note. It beckoned me back into the room. I opened drawers and looked under the bed, I threw his clothes off of his desk chair.

"Sarah?" Toby was silhouetted in the doorway.

But I didn't stop and the music didn't either. I paused in front of the closet before jerking the door open. There, behind winter coats and blankets, was a music box, small and pale and delicate. Trembling, I picked it up. A young girl in an elaborate white dress twirled slowly. My music box. I hadn't seen it since…

I turned to Toby. "What is this doing in here?" My tone was harsher than I intended.

He shrugged, bewildered. "I don't know! It's not mine. I didn't put it there."

I sighed. "Everything's fine, Toby. It's just an old music box." I ruffled his hair again and tried to smile. "Nothing to be scared of." Perhaps I could convince myself of that too.

"I heard voices, Sarah. I'm not lying." He looked hurt by my dismissal, his brow furrowed. "I know you hear them too."

My already forced smile faltered. "They aren't real, Toby. Go back to sleep, okay? There's no one here." I knew how much it hurt to hear those words, but I said them anyway.

He sulked back to bed. I turned on his nightlight that was plugged into the wall. "Goodnight, Toby." He rolled over and turned his back to me. I shut his door softly.

Still holding the music box, I walked back to my own room. I set it down on my vanity, grabbed the bottle of wine, and sat on my bed. The music still played, the girl slowly turning in a partnerless dance. I took a sip of wine straight from the bottle as I watched. The dress reminded me of the one I'd been wearing in that empty ballroom Dr. Sharpe had led me to.

The music wouldn't stop.

I was about to stand and force it to stop when I noticed a shadowy ripple in the mirror behind it. My fingers gripped the wine bottle like it was my only tether to reality. For a moment, the glass was still again, but then it began to move—like the surface had turned to water and someone had disturbed it. My lips parted in horror and I wanted to look away, to run from the room, from the house, but I couldn't bring myself to move. I could make out a figure slowly coming into focus and I gasped. He had a large nose and white hair. His image swam in the glass, not quite clear

"Hoggle?" I whispered, straining my eyes to see. I dropped the bottle, wine staining the floor. It couldn't be.

"Sarah…" his voice sounded distant and he blinked several times as if he couldn't quite see me.

The terror of seeing something that I knew wasn't real always made me tremble. It was remarkable, what the mind was capable of. I stood slowly and walked to the vanity, reaching out towards the glass in a pantomime of my dream in Dr. Sharpe's office.

"Sarah you're in danger." His voice was nervous and rushed, like he was afraid someone would overhear him.

I lowered my hand. "This isn't real. I'm not in danger." I spoke softly to myself.

"Is that what he told you?"

I turned and put my hands over my ears. I took a deep breath. I closed my eyes and counted to ten.

"Please, Sarah…" Hoggle's pleading tone made me open my eyes. But Hoggle wasn't alone anymore. My father stood next to him. I covered my mouth with my hand.

"Dad?" My voice trembled. "No, no, no…" I backed up until my legs hit the edge of my bed.

"Sarah, you don't understand. Be careful. Don't let him—" His mouth was still moving but I couldn't hear him. The music box suddenly stopped playing. Tears slid down my cheeks. Their images slowly began to fade and I ran to the mirror, horrified to see my father's face, but perhaps more horrified to have him taken away again. I could see my father's lips form the words 'I'm sorry' before he was gone completely. The glass was smooth once more.

I crumbled to the floor and covered my face with my hands. My body heaved with sobs for several minutes. I tried to take a few breaths to calm myself. But alone in the dark, in this room, it was all too much. When I was young, before mom left, I would climb into bed with my parents after having a bad dream. But I was 25 and they were both gone. I couldn't stay here with this mirror and these memories. Shakily, I stood, and picked up a blanket, a pillow, and one of my old stuffed bears, Lancelot. I walked downstairs to the couch, turned on the TV, and huddled under the blanket.

It wasn't long before the sadness and the wine lulled me into a fitful sleep. There was no strange laughter tonight, no whispers. Instead, it was almost eerily silent.

I woke to the smell of coffee. The soft morning light made the previous evening seem more and more like a dream. I rubbed my eyes and made my way to the kitchen where Irene was making toast and eggs. But there was something blurred and strange about the intrusion of normalcy after something so decidedly not normal.

She smiled. "Good morning." Her eyes seemed to take me in and while I hadn't yet looked in a mirror, I was sure I looked about as good as I felt.

I sat down at the table and brushed my hair out of my face. Irene poured me a cup of coffee.

"Did you have trouble sleeping?"

"Yeah, bad dreams. Hence me relocating to the couch." I took a sip of coffee and cradled the warm cup in my hands. Hopefully it would help relieve my wine headache.

She patted my shoulder. Part of me felt bad lying to her, but it was too raw to say aloud. Speaking of it would make it more real somehow, and I was content for the time being to pretend it was a nightmare.

Irene placed a plate of eggs in front of me and sat down. "Sarah…"

I looked up.

"You can stay here a while. Take some time off work."

I was shaking my head before she even finished. "I can't. I don't want my life to be derailed. I'm in therapy. I'm taking care of myself." I tried to give her an encouraging smile. "I'll be all right, Irene."

Her brow furrowed with worry. "I know there are a lot of memories here, but we can make new ones. You could work part time instead of full time…"

"If I really need to I'll consider it, okay?" I took a bite of eggs, hoping it would ease her slightly. "Promise."

She smiled at me sadly before taking a sip of her coffee.

Toby had stopped giving me the silent treatment by the afternoon and we played a game of scrabble that I lost. Once he got absorbed by his video games, I left to take a long walk. Walking was often my way of processing, but my thoughts were so haunting that I wasn't paying attention to where I was going. Grey clouds were rolling in, casting a melancholy light on the golden trees. It was the trees that pulled me out of my own head. I stood in a grassy park with a small pond. My heart ached—this has been one of my favorite places as a child. I used to pretend there was a troll beneath the stone bridge, or that I was watched by an evil king who wanted to kidnap me and take me to his castle. That memory sent a chill down my spine. How lovely it was when it was all a game that I could stop playing whenever I liked.

The autumn leaves were brittle beneath my boots and the wind smelled like wood smoke. Perhaps it wouldn't be so bad to stay if I truly needed to. Two crows cawed loudly from a red-leafed oak and their cries seemed to herald the rain. It started slowly, the pond rippling softly with the scattered rain drops, but this wasn't a gentle storm. I gasped with cold and ran over the bridge and down the trail. By the time I made it home I was soaked, my knit sweater heavy with rain. As I reached for the door, lightening forked the sky and struck an old tree in front of our house. I screamed as the wood splintered and cracked and burned. A gust of wind was the only push it needed to fall on our driveway. _Fuck, fuck, fuck_. I rushed inside and locked the door, as if a deadbolt could protect me from the storm.

"Sarah!" Irene rushed over, car keys in her hand. "I was just about to go look for you. Let me get you some towels."

"I don't remember even hearing about rain in the forecast today." I crossed my arms over my chest and shivered. "A tree fell..."

Irene wrapped a towel around my shoulders. "We'll call and see about getting it removed tomorrow, but I'm sorry that you'll probably miss work."

"Can't you give me a ride back tonight?" I didn't want to stay another night and I hated feeling trapped. I knew it was a stupid question and yet.

"Not if there is a tree blocking the drive. It will be safest to wait until tomorrow morning."

The storm raged into the night and I was once again in my bedroom, sitting on the windowsill and watching lightening fork across the sky. Only this time I had a mug of hot tea instead of a bottle of wine. The wind pulled the trees as if they were puppets on a string. I remembered a storm from many years ago and all of the dark and stormy nights of my favorite stories. If I were a character in a story rather than a troubled girl…I wondered what I would do. Once upon a time, in a story my traitorous brain contrived, I'd been a girl who'd made all the right choices. And now everything was so wrong and I was so lost.

I was contemplating getting ready for bed when the power went out. You never notice the constant hum of electricity until it's gone. The sudden silence and darkness of the house was jarring, but not unexpected. I was surprised the power had managed to last this long. Still, there was comfort to the warm, honey-glow of lamps at night and I always felt a little bit smaller, a little more afraid when they were out. I set my tea down by the window and went to my dresser to light a candle. The lightening illuminated the room in a shock of white, the soon-to-follow thunder rattling the windows. The candle only made the darkness more alive, casting flickering shadows on the walls. I avoided looking into the vanity mirror.

I half expected Toby or Irene to knock on my door and ask if I was okay. But no one came. How they were managing to sleep through this storm was beyond me. I took my candle and set it on the nightstand. I couldn't sleep, especially now, but I didn't think I could stand staring out the window or staring too intently at the shadows on the walls. Instead, I dragged my fingers along the spines of my old books. As an ode to dark and stormy nights, I plucked Frankenstein from the shelf and settled on my bed to read by candlelight. Mary Shelley would be proud.

The storm quieted as the pages turned and I could feel my eyes getting heavy. But the air began to stir in my room. Papers on my vanity fluttered, the candle flame twisted and curled as if trying to escape. I frowned. The window was firmly shut and even my door was closed. I slowly shut my book, my body tensing. I could hear it, the wind. Not the wind outside, but something invisible moving through the room. My pounding heart was becoming all too familiar. I stood and the strange breeze caught my hair. It smelled like wet earth and too-ripe fruit. Something small danced in the mirror and I closed my eyes for a moment, willing it to stop. Before I opened my eyes again, I could hear the distinct sound of something small falling to the floor. My eyes snapped open to see a letter sitting at my feet. I swallowed.

This wasn't typical of my hallucinations. Was my subconscious going to start writing me now too? I slowly bent to pick it up, feeling a little foolish as I did so. But the parchment was heavy and thick in my hands. My fingers ghosted over the blood-red seal, feeling the grooves of the wax. The mirror was still, the glass only reflecting my bedroom.

Carefully, tenderly, I opened the letter.

_Sarah,_

_Please believe me when I tell you that I'm alive. I'm so sorry I didn't believe you all those years ago. But don't come looking for me, Sarah. I just want you to know the truth. And to always be on your guard. _

_All my love,_

_Dad_

The parchment trembled in my hands. I couldn't breathe. I slumped to the floor with my hand over my mouth. Never, not once, had I ever received something so tangible. Such sincere proof of what I had deeply and secretly always hoped. But…I couldn't let my mind run away with me. Perhaps everything was getting worse and perhaps it wasn't real.

My child heart ached a quiet and terrible ache. Hot tears ran down my cheeks. I don't think I realized how much I wanted it to be real until I read those words. There is something brilliant and sincerely wanting about children and their willingness to believe. I could feel a locked box deep in my cathedral heart open and the world itself seemed to shift. As much as it pained me, I closed my eyes and tried to quell my hope. I needed to be sure. My fingers clutched the letter like it was something sacred.

I wouldn't let it out of my sight.

I didn't bother changing for bed, but I did pull a red ribbon from one of my vanity drawers. I tied one end around the letter and the other end around my wrist. It didn't seem enough to keep it untethered. Climbing into bed, I put my ribboned hand over the parchment. Some part of me was terrified to close my eyes because what if it was gone when I woke up? But if I had any hope of driving back tomorrow I needed to get some rest.

I blew out the candle and watched the pale paper in the dark. Hours or minutes passed and eventually I drifted off into a fitful sleep. No voices, no whispers, no dreams. My father's letter felt like a protective charm, safe harbor through the night.

A/N: This chapter gave me such trouble, but I hope you like it! I've vaguely plotted the rest of the story and I think it will be longer than I originally expected (isn't that always the way?). I'm very excited to write her next therapy session, so hoping to have another update soon!


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